


Lungwork

by iamanawesometaco



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boy-Who-Lived politics, Canon-Typical Violence, Common Sense, Conspiracy Theories, Dark Arts, Drama, Escalation, Friendship, Gen, Growing Up, Harry Potter-centric, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Fifth Year, In the first chapter, Inaccuracy, M/M, Minor Character Death, Misunderstandings, Most of the time, Mostly Gen, Platonic Relationships, Politics, Pureblood Politics, Revolution, Room of Requirement, Slow Build, Slow To Update, Summary subject to change, Teenagers, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Time Skips, Voldemort is a terrorist, Warnings May Change, Work In Progress, Worldbuilding, all the unreliable narrators, angus major wonders how this is his life, avoiding romance, but it's mostly with magic and corrupt laws so eh, by minors, enabled by adults, everyone is wrong, except, gradual escalation, i do not always share their opinion, illegal acts committed by minors, it's hogwarts, it's not, it's on harry, lots of platonic affection, mentions of recreational drug use, minor pureblood houses, most of everyone knows nothing, no bashing by the plot, no one is right, no one knows everything, original character death (technically), original portrait character, preslash?, puppy love?, radical thinking, some characters bash other characters, summary makes it sound like the story's focus is on the omc, technically, teen drama, the kids aren't alright, they get their own tag, they have opinions because plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 18:06:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10645215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamanawesometaco/pseuds/iamanawesometaco
Summary: Angus Major is a Hufflepuff from a Dark family, and the heir to his family line. He died in the Room of Requirement in his sixth year while doing research; through "obscure unknown magic" (he's lying, it was (probably) a dark arts accident) his soul got trapped within a portrait and now he's doing his best to wheedle Harry Potter into getting him a body in between teaching him politics and noble duties, and of course trying desperately not to fall in love all the while. How is this his (after)life?(Harry Potter-centric, mostly. title, tags, warnings, and summary subject to change. for now warnings are in the tags. summary is pretty inaccurate, actually. note that there are no tagged pairings. slow build, slow updates.)





	Lungwork

**Author's Note:**

> Angus' theme song is _Remains of the Day_ , by Danny Elfman. His patronus is a Lethifold.
> 
> Despite the summary (it's old and quite possibly temporary, this story is turning quite a bit more intense and complex than I expected) there will be very little genuine romance, aside from crushes and small infatuations. These kids (the DA) have more important things to do than snog in broom cupboards; like, say, waging a passive-aggressive war on Umbridge and creating a third side in the upcoming months of battle and blood. 
> 
> Legends are rooted in truth and magic isn't always might. Get ready for a revolution of the ages.
> 
>  
> 
> (first few chapters are tame prologue-y bits.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a tame chapter that mostly just introduces Angus Major, the original portrait character. occurs on some unspecified night, before Harry's first detention with Umbridge. this story, later, took a left turn into deep worldbuilding territory and having unusual characters teaching the DA to be terrifying children of terror who fight so their children won't have to, not like their parents and grandparents have made them. You will see that the Creevey brothers are _not to be messed with_ , later. Later. Lavender Brown scares the bejeezus out of me too.
> 
> warnings in end notes

It was a fairly normal day for Harry Potter, and given what his days were like, he decided that he needed some private time. Alone time. He needed space to think, to breathe. He needed rest.

The Room of Requirement was quiet and still when he pushed the door open. "The place where everything is hidden." A sigh of relief. "Now, to find an armchair..."

He meandered slowly through the stacks of discarded items. It was dinnertime, but Harry had wheedled Dobby into packing him a basket of food, and he'd brought along a pillow and thick blanket. He was sure there was an area suitable for relaxing; he'd deliberately not asked for a relaxing room, not wanting it to feel contrived. Something about the clutter was soothing, lulling him into a state resembling _peace_.

He rounded a corner between two enormous stacks, one composed entirely of bedpans and the other of assorted cowboy paraphernalia, both of which he wrinkled his nose at. 

They didn't compare to the corpse.

It was seated in an uncomfortable wooden chair before a massive wooden table covered in stuff, slumped slightly to the side like it had just fallen asleep. Its dried and sunken appearance disproved that idea, though there was still clumps of hair and bits of skin here and there. It wore Hufflepuff robes, faded with age, and an outdated boys uniform beneath. What was left of the hands were coated in ink, a quill still grasped in shriveled fingers and scrolls upon scrolls of parchment were laid across the table, weighed down by heavy tomes and various doodads. 

At the opposing end of the table, a portrait was balanced on a stand. In the understated frame was a perfect rendition, so perfect Harry almost mistook it for a mirror, of the table, the corpse, and surroundings (apart from Harry)...

_Except in it, the boy was alive._

Harry skirted around the body, too old and well preserved to smell he noted, to get a closer look at the portrait. The boy was in the same position as the corpse, sagged over in sleep, and but for the rise and fall of his chest Harry would have taken him to be simply a morbid still painting. The unidentified Hufflepuff had wavy brown hair, _chestnut_ as Lavender Brown would say, the aristocratic features usually indicative of being a pureblood, and seemed to be older than Harry by a year or so. He looked rather like your average pureblooded wizard, one of the ones who were more than a little attractive but just blended into the crowd of likewise-attractive purebloods who, being interrelated and closely acquainted, all had pretty much the same faces and mannerisms.

Harry dragged a finger along the frame, impressed with the amount of dust that had managed to accumulate. Then again, it had been sitting there for however many years, just gathering the stuff. His finger caught on a small dip in the frame, just a slight irregularity in the pattern. It could have been a flaw in the frame. 

With Harry's luck, it most certainly _wasn't_.

The frame lit up in a bright copper-oxide blue, illuminating minuscule runes subtly hidden by delicate scrollwork. Hundreds upon thousands of runes tried to out-shine each other, the strength of their light fluctuating in a way runelight was _not_ supposed to fluctuate.

The portrait wizard stirred, a slight frown creasing his brow, then sat up drowsily. He only gave Harry a cursory glance before he muttered under his breath and, rather anticlimactically, began scribbling on the parchment laid out in front of him as he had apparently been doing before his death. 

Harry waited. 

He glanced up again and startled so badly he knocked over three bottles of ink, rolled up eight scrolls when he knocked various knickknacks aside, and toppled his chair over as he shot to his feet. He was also spluttering an impressive amount of cuss words, obviously torn between fixing his things and investigating Harry; eventually the inanimate objects won out. Er, the painted replicas of inanimate objects.

Once the painting had siphoned off the errant ink, weighed down his parchments, and righted his chair, he strode around the table to glare at Harry. "Now, how did you get here? I certainly didn't—Morgana's name!" He clambered inelegantly onto the table, just before the frame so his upper body filled most of it, and peered curiously out at the world. "It worked!"

The Hufflepuff's eyes were plain brown, a little darker than his hair, though they had a rather pleasant shape to them. It occurred to Harry that he hadn't been glaring but squinting, as there was still sleep-goop crusted around the corners. His eyebrows were the slightest bit patchy up close, and it looked like he wore mascara, though Harry privately believed it was more likely that his eyelashes were simply singed; the portrait-boy seemed the type. Harry tilted his head. "Who are you a portrait of?"

He reared back a little, eyes flying wide. "You're Potter!"

_"How do you know my name?"_

"No, wait." He leaned back in and gestured did Harry to step closer (he didn't). "Your eyes are _green_. Sorry, thought maybe you were that brat James Potter, he would've burned me and thought it _funny_. Yes, very sorry about that."

Harry gave the portrait a _Look_. "Now, see here. You may be dead and a portrait and a little insane, but James Potter was my father. Please cease insulting his character." 

The Hufflepuff gave him a strange look. "...What year is it?"

"1995. How long were you sleeping in there?"

The painted boy licked his lips, looking a little shell-shocked. He covered his mouth with a hand that trembled minutely. "Since 1973. Last I can recall it was almost Yuletide. I fell asleep, I thought my experiment didn't work, but... _Is that my body?_ Dear Lord, it looks like a _mummy_. I can't... I'm _trapped_."

Harry frowned. "Can you make sense? And tell me your name, while you're at it?"

"Angus Major, heir to the Majors— _ffffffuck_. Yes. Well. I was experimenting, see," Angus Major fidgeted, scooting back to examine his papers, "I want to know how magical portraits work but there's no way I'm going to spend _thirty years_ in an apprenticeship just to satisfy my curiosity, so I... but it only half worked. My, the experiment, it transferred my consciousness to the painting but left me no way back. Without a mind in it, my body withered and died, probably of starvation, so even if I could have gotten back it's too late now." He trailed off and scribbled something on his notes. "This result disproves _that_ entire theory, or at least leaves me with no way to prove it—"

"Why?" Harry interrupted. "Why try it on yourself? And why do any of this in the first place?"

Angus drew himself up in indignation, rather reminiscent of Zacharias Smith. "For science and knowledge, of course! I already told you _why_. Also, self-experimentation is significantly less heinous than human experimentation. I have no desire to be sent to Azkaban for irreversibly trapping one of my classmates in a magical portrait, honestly, I'm not _stupid_. There's no way they'd be able to accurately describe the sensations anyway, and are you any good at research? I could use a hand."

He wasn't quite sure of what to make of that, or the implications. "I hope you don't mean literally."

The portrait boy grinned briefly, surprised into it. "Good one! That too, but mainly because I don't think the books in here are properly real, and it's certainly not acting like the Come and Go Room. I rather want to continue my research, and eventually get out of here."

It didn't seem like the best idea to help, actually. With some of the thing he'd said, and hinted at, and well— Harry wasn't comfortable hanging around him. He so wanted a good night's rest, too... "I'm terrible at researching."

Angus made a strange face, like he was being strangled. "How old are you? Fourth year? And no one's taught you how to research properly? Are you even passing your classes? Thaddeus was right, this school _is_ going to the dogs. 1995, and they don't teach you how to research. I thought better of Slughorn."

"I'm a fifth year, _thank you_ , and I've never even _heard_ of any slug horns." The portrait was a goldmine of information though. Maybe Angus could show him to a comfy armchair? Or better yet, a bed? Harry told himself he would only ask a few more questions, even as he felt his resolve to stay away crumbling.

"Professor Slughorn's a potions master, one of the best in the world. Not much of an inventor but that's why he sticks to teaching, he's an _excellent_ teacher. I suppose he retired then. Shame, he was very nice, and competent too, showed all his first years how to write with quills in the first week of school. He taught me too, since Professor Beery is, was, maybe _still_ is, usually too high on cannabis to be of any real use."

Harry laughed. "For real?"

"Very real," Angus confirmed. "He shares with the upper years, fifth and seventh especially. I never developed a taste for it, but I have, I mean I _had_ quite a few dorm mates who did. Excellent stress-reliever for exams, staved off no few panic attacks. What was I talking about?"

"Professor Slughorn."

"Yes, Slughorn. A good man through and through. He may have shown a little favoritism but no more than any other head of house, perhaps even _less_ so than any other, and he always gave points where points were due. Slapped me with a fair few detentions for breaking curfew and he had me chopping ingredients for two months when he caught me breaking into the potions lab to experiment." He winked conspiratorially. "Tell me, who's the Head of Slytherin now?"

Harry recoiled. "I'm a Gryffindor!" His robes— oh, right. He was in pajamas and Dobby had given him the purple Hogwarts blanket, not the red Gryffindor one. "Where did you even get the idea?"

"Really? You're _not_ Slytherin? The Sorting Hat is losing its touch. You've more cunning than half my yearmates, including the Slytherins. _Especially_ the Slytherins, the lot of ambitious fools. Tell me you've at least been to one of the Slytherin parties? Slytherin throws the _best_ parties, I'm talking sexy costumes and alcohol like you've never seen, _that_ kind of party." He'd seated himself further back on the table, cross-legged with his elbows on his knees and chin cupped in his hands. He was wearing socks but no shoes, and his wrists were laden with bracelets of leathers, textiles, and metals, matching his earrings. Strange. 

"Only Gryffindor parties, which I am obliged to tell you are fantastic. House rivalry is pretty bad, the Slytherins would sooner curse me than invite me to a party. Was it not like that in the 70's?" Harry leaned one hip against the table, shifting his grip. The blanket was getting heavy.

"It's been getting worse," Angus admitted darkly, fiddling with a ring. "Everyone knows the Dark Lord is recruiting straight out of Hogwarts, and it's been more Slytherins in the last two years than ever before. There's getting to be a stigma, and Dumbledore is only making it worse. Sure, he doesn't actively contribute, but by not stepping in when first year snakes are getting cursed to hell and back by seventh year Gryffs he's implying it's okay, even a _good_ thing." He made a face. "I can't _stand_ people like him."

"Don't talk about Dumbledore like that."

Angus made another face and sighed. "Of course the person to wake me up after a twenty-year sleep would be a Dumbledore fanatic. Of course." He gave a Harry an odd smile. "Alright, I won't talk about him like that. No promises not to think it though, he's the biggest hypocrite in recent history. He and Grindelwald use to be best friends you know, wanted to eradicate Muggles for the Greater Good. Well! Do come again, within the week preferably, would hate to go mad now. Goodnight!" He dropped back into his chair and apparently straight into sleep, head lolling to the side once more.

Harry stared, just barely catching the basket of food when it slipped from his hand. "You can't just say something like that and not elaborate! What the heck?! Crazy cryptic magic portraits... Major! Angus Major! What was that about?!"

A sly smile crossed the Hufflepuff's lips and he sat up proper. "Gotcha."

Harry was so, so tempted to just light him on fire and be done with it. 

"No, really though, I was serious about Dumbledore. He's half the reason people 'go Dark', the gross old twat, and twice as pompous as any Malfoy. And you know? Those people he claims are going Dark? Most of them are neutral grey, but just don't align with his political policies. Oh, you don't agree with the self-proclaimed Light Lord Dumbledore? Then you obviously must be a dangerous Dark wizard who hates Muggles and Muggleborn and is out to murder innocent muggle children! It's _disgusting_. Dark magic and Dark politics aren't even the same thing! He's sowing misinformation among the masses and reaping the rewards! ...I sound like an insane conspiracy theorist don't I."

"...Yeah pretty much."

"I'm biased, clearly, don't just take my word, but you should definitely look this stuff up as discreetly as you can. Old newspapers during the war, tell-alls by people who knew them, things like that. And Bathilda Bagshot or whatever her name is, the ancient one who writes all the Hogwarts history books, she's, like, Grindelwald's second cousin." 

He looked at him dubiously. "That sounds like research."

"Alas! My devious plan is foiled. No, I'm actually serious, and, Potter? Don't blindly trust what anyone tells you. Politics and history— you have to listen to the biased accounts of both sides, then piece together the truth for yourself. Everyone's truth is different." Under the weight of the painted boy's gaze, Harry felt rather like a butterfly on a corkboard, struggling desperately around a pin— and then the moment passed, and Angus just looked tired. 

He could sympathize with that. "I'll think about it. Is there anywhere in here where I could sleep? Relax a bit?"

The Hufflepuff seemed to shake himself awake. "Yes! Yes of course, just around the corner there, a little deeper in. Don't mind the Hufflepuff sheets and the dust, I haven't slept there in, ehh, twenty five years! But, Potter," he looked at Harry curiously, "if you wanted a nap why on earth didn't you just ask the Room for a bed?"

Harry looked at Angus a long time. "The name's Harry Potter. And maybe, because if I had, I wouldn't have met you. So long, Angus Major. I'll be seeing you. Perhaps, one day, even in the living flesh."

With that, he trotted off and out of sight, dinner basket knocking into his knee.

The soul of Angus Major stared at his own corpse. "Now, why _did_ I say all that? I haven't been so chatty since I was eight." He received no answer. "...Harry Potter, hm? I'll remember you. I'll hold you to those words." His painted eyes gleamed. _"I'll remember."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for: a teacher giving students (minors, underage) access to marijuana; mentions of death/a dead person discussing their own death (not as tragic as moaning myrtle's); descriptions of a corpse (non-gory, but a little graphic)
> 
> do you see the more subtle signs of canon divergence yet? i'm not talking about Angus... 
> 
> fun fact: i originally had Angus as a very Tom Riddle character (note how i didn't tag Voldie as TMR), with perfect hair and clothes and demeanor, and a little flirty/sleazy... then i wrote about singed eyelashes and that all went to hell, so now he has a bajillion earrings and bracelets and amulet necklaces, his shirts are always untucked and buttoned wrong with sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie what tie? the one keeping your hair out of your eyes. thanks Thad!, his robes are always slightly charred, if you look closely he no doubt has soot or stains somewhere on his person, he's lost and regrown well over forty teeth due to experiments literally blowing up in his face, and has the utterly ridiculous ability to fall asleep literally everywhere (ex: first year, the spire of ravenclaw tower; second year, moaning myrtle's bathroom while flooded; third year, on the back of a fire-breathing salamander; and so forth.) so he's always rumpled and dozing off because he stayed up for three days straight searching for the spells used to create Caliburn, _again_. (his cousin Thaddeus Minor, mentioned briefly all over the place, is so done with him.)

**Author's Note:**

> **early pieces that didn't quite make it into the story**
> 
>  
> 
> "Potter? You mean that cheeky third year who gave all the Ravenclaws eagle beaks last week— er, the week before Yule break of 1973? _That_ Potter?"  
>  ("He had a _son?_ There are _more_ of him? Dear Goddess have mercy on my soul... that's all that's left of me anyway...")  
>  (("Dear god I have a _crush_ on _Marauder Potter's son_ I am _falling in love_ with a _Potter_ what the hell is _wrong_ with me?"))
> 
>  
> 
> "No, no, you idiot! Think before you do anything! Dammit, we've talked about this, Potter! You can't die on me, if I lose you I swear I'll—"  
> "Angus, are you... blushing?"  
> "NO! Shut up! Forget it, go be a stupid Gryffindor somewhere else, I'm not listening, lalalalalala—"  
> "Aw, come on Ang, don't sulk."  
> "NOBLE HEIRS DO NOT SULK, POTTER."  
> "Fine, fine, you're brooding then. Sensitive much?"  
> "Potter, just— just go mirror call your godfather or something. I'm getting back to my research, don't bother me unless you're in mortal peril."
> 
> ("Potter, your godfather is Sirius Black and you didn't think to tell me?!"  
> -"How was I supposed to know—?"  
> "Harry, what in the name of Morgana is _Angus Major_ doing near you?"  
>  -"How did you know—"  
> "His voice; that dark bastard went missing in my third year, was never found, probably ran away to study rituals and _blood magic_ in Libya or whatev—"  
>  "I'll have you know I died inside this very castle, you brat, Harry was the one to find my stinkin' _corpse_ —"  
> -"Hey, the Dursleys' house has Blood Wards around it—"  
> "Not now Harry—"  
> "Don't you dare interrupt, Black, Potter was saying something imp—"  
> "Shut _up_ , Major!"  
> -"WOULD BOTH OF YOU STOP _SQUABBLING_ LIKE _CHILDREN_ FOR _ONE MINUTE!")_


End file.
